


Rose-Tinted

by remembertowrite



Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: Deleted Scene, Episode Tag: 104 Turn That Frown Upside Down, F/M, Flash Fic, Fluff, Friendship, Implied Attraction, and bad "what's a podcast?" jokes, giftsfortallpaul, happy unsoundiversary, rated t for a few swears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 02:43:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6638176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remembertowrite/pseuds/remembertowrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sheriff Osenga is friendly, Strand is actually <em>smiling</em>, and Alex is concerned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rose-Tinted

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Unsoundiversary](http://surely-you-jess.tumblr.com/post/143274002083/unsoundiversary-master-post), originally posted on [my Tumblr](http://surely-you-jess.tumblr.com/post/143256885873/rose-tinted-unsoundiversary-prompt-fill) earlier today.

Nestled in the mountains and wreathed in the deep greens of forest, Charlesworth could be one of those charming small towns splashed across brochures and highlighted on hikers’ maps—if not for its ghoulish annual celebration of violence.

The garish plastic fangs of upside down monster masks glint in the sunlight, catching the corner of Alex’s eye as she heads back to the sheriff’s office. She finds the numerous recreations of Catherine Williams’ mutilated body fascinating, if not a little tasteless.

She holds back a shudder and enters the sheriff’s office, checking her phone to reread Strand’s text detailing the specifics of his location. As she pushes through the glass doors, she realizes it’s an unnecessary effort: Like Charlesworth as a whole, the town sheriff’s office is quaint and small, as if time has halted in a rose-tinted alternate version of the 50’s. The warm rays of the late afternoon sun filter in between the half-drawn blinds, casting an orange glow over the desk where Strand and Sheriff Osenga sit sharing a bottle of whiskey.

Alex is slightly shocked to find them in the companionable conversation of old friends reacquainted, the kind of chatter that reveals their beverage of choice has loosened them up a little. What truly surprises her, almost to the point of concern, is the genuine smile Strand has plastered across his face. She has frequently witnessed, and sometimes inspired, the little indications of Strand’s amusement: the exhaled huff of a half-chuckle, the wry grin asserting he knows something everyone else doesn’t. But in the two months of knowing him, she’s never seen a simple smile.

She wonders if Strand often smiles around others besides herself and his new friend the sheriff.

Strand notices her before she breaks apart the boys’ club, and he greets her with a slight wave of his palm. He gestures towards her and addresses Osenga.

“This is Alex,” Strand says. “The podcaster.”

Osenga tilts his head like a curious dog. Or a confused drunk. If his information proves useful, Alex might consider leaving the sheriff’s drinking-on-the-clock indiscretion out of the podcast.

“What’s a podcast?” Osenga murmurs.

On second thought, perhaps the sheriff’s habit of drinking whiskey at 4pm on a Tuesday goes to character. For both Osenga and the town of Charlesworth.

“It’s radio. Online. On demand.” As Alex stutters through explanations to the increasingly befuddled Osenga, Strand attempts to conceal his smirk with a long sip of whiskey. She can practically see the devilish amusement glimmering in his eyes.

She resolves to have her revenge.

“On demand?” Osenga probes.

“It’s basically the radio,” she finishes lamely.

Strand chokes on his whiskey, his body wracked with wheezing-masked laughter. Alex pats him on the back under the pretense of aiding a choking victim: She exaggerates the swing of her arm so her palm lands flat and hard with a vengeance. She thinks it’s enough to effectively convey her displeasure.

She ignores Strand’s disapproving glare and shifts the topic to the Festival of the Upside Down Face. Osenga regales her and Strand with a tale of grave robbing and corpse mutilation that turns her stomach. Strand barely reacts, following a line of clinical inquiry, and Alex resents his more stoic constitution.

More than a few drinks in now, Osenga offers a joke about crackpot grave robbers that delights Strand and irks Alex. She raises her eyebrows at Strand and jerks her head towards the door.

“Thanks for your time, Sheriff,” she tells Osenga, and motions again for Strand to follow her. She half expects him to remain in the sheriff’s office all night shooting the shit with his new best friend, but the whiskey has inspired a gentler pliability of his ironclad will.

“Thanks, Boyd,” Strand says, and leaves the office with Alex.

The May sun has nearly set, casting long shadows from the squat two-story buildings of the town center, and Alex's mind inadvertently jumps to Sebastian Torres’ imaginary friend. She brushes it aside and walks in amicable silence next to Strand. He lumbers along with slow strides, his eyes lazily scanning the festive storefronts, and it's as if he’s shredded his formal, focused persona for something more natural, something more relaxed.

Alex isn’t sure if she likes him this way. It’s new and different and just the tiniest bit unsettling. She’s curious, though. She can’t help herself.

“I think it’s kind of nice that Charlesworth is the kind of town where the sheriff has a drink or two in the afternoon,” she observes.

She’s rewarded with a chuckle, and a warmth stirs in her stomach.

“How so?” Strand inquires.

“It’s a little charming, isn’t it? Kind of… nostalgic? The one-stoplight town in the country with the sheriff that has a drink, just one or two, right before the workday wraps up?”

His feet halt their leisurely march towards the hotel, and he regards her with a real smile, pearly whites and all. It’s the second one she’s borne witness to today. She’s tempted to pull out her phone and snap a picture for the Black Tapes Instagram, but the casual, friendly—intimate?—way he’s looking at her squashes that idea almost immediately.

“You have a way with words,” he declares with a certainty almost as complete as his denial of paranormal phenomena.

She gapes at him, stunned at the rare compliment, and lingers behind as Strand resumes walking. It’s only as he enters through the doors to the lobby that she realizes they’ve reached the hotel.

“Goodnight,” he calls over his shoulder, leaving her in the cool breeze of the nighttime air.

Still standing frozen in the street, Alex decides that Charlesworth is a strange, strange place.


End file.
